


Not Quite Cyrodiil

by nostalgic_breton_girl



Category: Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Balmora (Elder Scrolls), Gen, kind of a prose poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-27
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:07:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27742726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nostalgic_breton_girl/pseuds/nostalgic_breton_girl
Summary: Caius Cosades arrives newly in Balmora.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	Not Quite Cyrodiil

Vvardenfell is cold – cold and grey, quite unlike the Imperial City; scarce a corner of the heavens which is not obscured; cold, biting, even the caravaner has his scarf pulled close about his neck, almost to his chin – cold, for almost nobody has spoken to him, this outlander who already senses that he is not wanted here. They warned him, and he hardly believed them. The Dunmer he had met – for the most part in Cyrodiil – were metropolitan, polite enough, chattery: they could not be _that_ different in Morrowind, surely?

‘Watch it, _n’wah_ ,’ says a commoner, when he catches his arm by mistake.

He is looking up, and not ahead, at the sprawl of Balmora – tourist’s eyes, quick analytical thoughts. Narrow alleys, squat little houses, people going to and fro quite minding their own business, but with the sideways glance that betrays a wish to know _yours_ , if only they might get it; most of them Dunmer, most of them frosty. It is not Cyrodiil. But in Cyrodiil, the people not only covet knowledge of your business, they ask it of you; and on reflexion, Morrowind might just do.

He is an outlander, and unwanted; but they will not grasp him by the arms and throw him out. They will merely stare, and bite their questioning tongue, and call him an _n’wah_. Morrowind will do.

And it’s curious, how little they ask; in this land where once Mephala was revered, gossip spreads far but mutates little, and revolves around hardly anything at all. And so he becomes the skooma-addict, the man grown old too early from his sugar, the shadow who claimed possession of a ramshackle house one day – a day nobody can define; it was a year ago, or two; a month; or all eternity – and from then on became a part of Balmora.

How little they ask, and yet how much he hears!

How much he hears, and sees; how much it grows on him, piece by imperceptible piece; he can name everyone in town, now; has spoken to some; it is not Cyrodiil, but it is not bad, one has only to shift a little, and one falls into step. And then, suddenly, it all makes sense...

And he doesn’t pull his scarf so close, any more; knows the alleys like the back of his hand; and if he should catch a protruding elbow, they say _watch it, Caius_ , and he smiles to himself. And then he returns to his bed-and-basket; casts aside his day-clothes; drinks sujamma like a native; and calls it _home_. 


End file.
